


She's My Sam

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Bottom Sam, Curtain Fic, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Men of Letters Bunker, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Soulmates, Top Dean, Transgender, Transwoman, Transwoman Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 02:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4860143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam gets hurt, but this time, she just can't get back on her feet and forget about it. She breaks. Spurred on by their new-found retirement from hunting and their domesticity, Sam comes out to Dean as a transwoman, and it's hard at first, but Dean learns, they grow, and they fall in love. Copious amounts of angst but also fluff and emotional, super-in-love Winchester siblings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She's My Sam

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trans myself and I've always been infatuated by trans!Sam, but I've never written it before. This is my first attempt. Please tell me how you like it!

[LJ Post](http://excoyote.livejournal.com/5321.html)

 

On their first anniversary of hanging up their guns, machetes, and other bloody, gory things, they’re not somber. They didn’t quit out of necessity; like from a severed limb or paralysis or god forbid, the death of one of them. No, it was a decision they made together, and while it hurt and was confusing and for awhile they kept getting dragged back to darker corners, it is a decision neither of them regret.

On their first anniversary, Dean breaks out the liquor. It feels weird to be recognizing the date, when both of them are used to holidays being passed quietly with a movie or two, but Sam agrees that this is one celebration that means something. She downs a glass of Blue Label and feels it swim around inside of her, burning and buzzing its way through her body. She leans back. If they were anywhere other than the Bunker, she thinks they’d be able to hear the rain hitting the sides of the building in a low, washed murmur, maybe even hear the quiet rush of trees as an autumn wind blows through.

But way down deep in here, it’s quiet. Dean must be feeling the same, because he gets up from the table to put a record on the player. Sinatra begins to wax poetic about lovely girls and slow dances, accompanied by the jazzy tune of saxophones and trumpets. Dean sits back down across from Sam, his knee jiggling absentmindedly. After a brief moment, he gets up again, jogging into the kitchen. He comes out with a cake on a platter, and Sam quickly notices that he made it himself, wiggly frosting writing and all.

Sam takes the plate Dean hands her and cuts herself a slice. She’s much better about eating now, has been putting weight back on. Dean eyes her, noting her progress and shooting her a wide grin before shoveling cake into his mouth.

The celebration is silent, for the most part. Dean makes some toast that Sam can hardly remember a moment later and she drinks to that, feeling loose and light and strange, indescribably so.

This is not the life they set out for themselves. Nor is it the life they thought they were bound to, a burden to shoulder and carry for the rest of a short, bloody life. It’s… it’s okay, it’s calm, and for the most part, it’s happy. Dean works at a garage in Lebanon and Sam stays at home, sometimes taking calls from hunters but mostly walking through room after room, memorizing the paths, sometimes moving with a slow, ghostlike gait with a necktie tied around her eyes, an arm stretched out so the pads of her fingers brush against the rough brick walls. When she has time, and when the mood is right, which are two things that rarely overlap, she writes. She writes about slain monsters and valiant heroes. It’s a memoir of sorts, but also exaggerated in some places and softened in others.

She knows this is her fault. Their situation, their permanent leave of absence, the world tumbling dangerously on around them without their interference. While she enjoys the sideways domesticity, she knows the blame lies on her shoulders.

She thinks back to a little over a year ago, with difficulty. She’s (almost) successfully blocked out a lot of memories from Back Then. She thinks about what was done to her, her eyelids, her skin, her blood leeching out of her. She thinks about being strung up and both of her wrists breaking and pulling away from her body, very slowly. Twitching, she folds her hands into her lap and presses them between her thighs so Dean won’t see them shaking.

Her ears burn red and she stares at the floor, hoping Dean isn’t keeping too close an eye on her right now, even though he always is. Her mouth feels dry and she swallows, remembering how she’d collapsed into Dean’s arms after he’d saved her, just learning how to breathe again, everything icy and on fire, his desperate voice fuzzily crackling in her ears. She doesn’t really remember, but she knows from Dean’s recount that she was gone for around two days. Just a barely functioning body, really, with glassy, blank eyes and hoarse screams at night. Bandaged enough to look like a brand-new mummy. Only a little more than a corpse.

It was after that that was so much worse, because Sam can remember it. She remembers not being able to leave Dean alone, waiting outside the bathroom for him to finish up, seeing his mouth turn down when he caught her there. She remembers when he finally snapped, just barely restraining from shoving her because her shoulder was still tender from being ripped out of place. She remembers him yelling, asking her why this time was any different. After what Lucifer did to her, how she was _used_. She hates that word. He asked for space, asked for her to get over it.

Sam doesn’t think she ever felt more hurt in her life. And with her track record, that was saying something. But that moment, it had passed so quickly. Dean had seen the hurt in her eyes and his own had gone round, his mouth parting only slightly before he moved forward and put her arms around her and told her he was sorry, so fucking sorry.

They took it slow from there on out. The three hunts they did go on were all aborted attempts at what they thought was normalcy, only ending in shakes and shudders and more scars on Sam’s part and an extra serving of guilt for the both of them. In a weird twist of fate, one of the witnesses of the third hunt was a therapist, and Sam suspects she and Dean had a long talk, because Dean never brought up hunting again, never pressed Sam, nothing.

It reminds her of when she’d broken her arm when they were kids. It had been because of her own stupid decision, but Dean had biked her to the hospital without complaint, listening to the doctor’s care instructions himself when John was late. He’d dutifully looked after Sam for weeks, and Sam remembers the warm, glowing feeling for Dean she had then. It comes around now, fairly frequently, because she knows Dean is trying, he really is, now that Sam’s more broken than before and fragile and she doesn’t hide her hurts.

Over the past few months, a change has been forming between them, becoming more and more noticeable. It feels like the leaves turning color in the fall or the buds unfurling in the spring; it’s so gradual as not to be seen, and something good, but there’s a loss there, too. Sam notices it in little small things: if she tries to sleep alone in her old room, she’ll wake to Dean’s arms curled around her as he lightly snores, if she says the memories are making it hard, he listens, he asks questions, he doesn’t shy away from emotion or deflect it with blunt little jokes. And while they sort of functioned before, pressing their pains into each other with casual comments and rare, open-wound moments, it’s almost terrifying to be this open and real with Dean, to have such a solid, loving backbone behind Sam, literally and metaphorically.

And Sam is finding it more and more difficult to hide her feelings from Dean. For over thirty years, it was manageable enough, numbed down with escapes to universities or a fissure of deceit and mistrust between them. But now, they’re one piece again, even more so than usual, patched back together with a strong streak of gold, and Sam is falling so much harder for him than when she was fifteen, lost in some crazy spiral of desperate need that goes beyond sibling love, romantic, or sexual. It just  _is._

She deals, though. She lives and heals and smiles more and more, speaks above a whisper in public places even when she feels eyes boring into her like they did right before It happened. She loves Dean, and she is more than okay with the love he gives back. It is a gift, holy and beautiful, for her only, and it’s the only thing keeping her sane.

“Sammy.” Dean’s voice is gruff, tethering her right back to reality and out of her thoughts with ease. She looks back up at him, peeling her hands away from her jeans and grabbing her fork with hardly a tremor. She smiles faintly at him, taking another bite of cake, and he nods back mutely, leaning forward to cut himself another slice.

Sam decides now is as a good a time as any to tell her brother the truth about herself.

“Dean,” she starts, and his eyes meet hers, “I’m not your brother.”

She realizes her flub before the words have even finished leaving her mouth, but she can’t stop them. Dean’s eyes darken and he drops his plate, his lifted-up feet leaving the table as he pushes the chair back and stands, his lip wobbling. He reaches behind him, but there’s no gun in his waistband, there hasn’t been in eight weeks.

“Not like that!” Sam adds quickly, standing up to mirror Dean. She raises her hands even though Dean isn’t aiming a gun at her. “God, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you… just give me a moment here.”

“Not a demon?” Dean barks, his back still stiff, his legs braced in a defensive stance.

Sam shakes her head, her hair falling in front of her face as she sighs and falls back into her seat. She pushes her hair behind her ear and feels Dean observing her. He trusts her, though, he knows her better than anyone, and less than a minute later, he’s sitting down again, watching her with a lopsided, forced grin. “Almost gave me a heart attack there, kiddo.”

“I know, I know,” Sam blushes. “But promise you’ll listen?”

A piece of the smile falls away from Dean’s face, but he nods. Sam pushes her plate away from her and folds her hands on the table in front of her, her heart hammering away inside her chest, and her buzz is replaced with butterflies.

“What I said earlier… I just mean, to be your brother, I have to be a guy.” She checks Dean’s face, looks away, continues. “And I’m not. A guy. I’m a girl. I know– I know what my body is, right now, but it’s not the same thing.”

Dean’s face is unreadable, but it’s not light or teary or happy, and it makes her heart hit her ribcage at a faster beat. “I know it’s really hard to understand,” she rushes on, staring past Dean’s shoulder, blinking away the burn in her eyes, “but please,  _please_  don’t joke about it or be grossed out. I can help you understand but I can’t deal with that, ever.” She pauses, giving Dean a space to voice his thoughts.

“I don’t…” Dean starts, but he falters, his brows drawing together. “Okay, I won’t joke, and you could never gross me out, but beyond that, Sammy, I’m pretty lost. Is this- is this because of what happened to you?”

“No!” Sam straightens up. “No, Dean, what you gotta know is it’s just me. I’ve been like this ever since I knew what transgender is. Jess helped me so much with-”

“Transgender?” Dean interrupts. “That’s what you are, you’re a tranny?”

Sam flinches. “That’s not… that’s not a really good term, Dean. God, this is going to take so long to properly explain, but lots of words are really offensive, and not all transgender people are the same. Or I guess if you think I just like to dress up like a girl or something, that’s wrong, too. I  _am_  a girl. But I’m still Sam. Okay?”

Dean tilts his head back and downs a glass of liquor. “Hell of a time to tell me this,” he says.

Sam huffs, her fingernails scratching against the tabletop. “I thought I could trust you enough to tell you this.”

Dean glares. “You can, Sammy, I’m just. I’m trying to understand, but you have to help me out here. Can I…? Can I still call you Sammy?”

“Yes,” Sam laughs. “I’d rather die before you stop calling me that.”

Dean smiles.

“And I’ll help you understand. And I’m not the only person like this. At Stanford, there were so many other students, and at San Francisco pride… I’ll help you, okay? As long as you listen. Even if you think it’s stupid or that I’m overcompensating or some bullshit, just keep listening. And you can still call me Sam and Sammy. But not ‘he’, okay? 'She’.”

Dean nods. “Little sister, right?”

Sam feels herself calming down, her head clearing. She can read Dean again, and in an odd way it’s like when she had all those Tuesdays: he might not be on the same page, but he knows what it means to Sam. He trusts her, and he’s always willing to try, to help.

Sam doesn’t know how she got so lucky.

“Thank you,” she breathes, and smiles wide, dimples bracketing her wide mouth, “just… thank you for listening. Seriously.”

Dean waves her off, gathering up their plates. The record ends. “You never have to thank me, Sammy. Not me.”

Sam follows after Dean, carrying the rest of the cake into the kitchen and helping Dean clean everything up. It’s been a weird day of a fucking weird life, but she wouldn’t trade it for anything in the whole world.

When Dean’s done with his dishes, he leans against the counter, nursing a beer. He quirks an eyebrow at Sam. “So,” he starts, clearing his throat and scratching at his temple, “this is who’ve you’ve been for a long time? Since Stanford?”

Sam leans against the kitchen table, facing Dean. She nods. “My whole life, even if I didn’t know it,” she tells him.

Dean takes another swig, stares sightlessly at the floor, cogs turning in his head. He clears his throat again, setting the beer down on the counter behind him. “Good time for a chick flick moment, right?” he says, his voice a little rough around the edges, and opens up his arms, gesturing with his fingers.

Sam laughs, and moves forward into Dean’s embrace. She’s not worried anymore, not even a little bit. It might be hard and strange and a long road, but she has Dean and his warm arms and that’s all that matters.

_Four months later_

Sam steps into her old room, where a dresser stands with a tall, scratched mirror. She moves in front of it and takes off her shirt, regarding her reflection. She’s only been taking estrogen for a month and a half, but she can see the difference: her waist tapers more prominently, her belly is smoothening out, her shoulders seem just a bit less broad. She imagines herself in a year, in two, in three. Smiling, she takes a picture, shrugging her shirt back on as soon as she’s done.

It’s almost supernatural how much doing this has helped her. Before, when she was pretending to be _him_ , he hated his body, hated who had been in it and touched it and broken it. He couldn’t look at himself for very long, let alone touch himself. But now? She’s a long way off from love, but she likes who she is. She likes that her face is slimmer, that Dean bought her makeup last week. She likes Sam. She likes who she’s becoming.

The past four months haven’t been easy. Every day with Dean was spent having conversations with him, from general information to little, tiny details and Sam’s personal feelings about things. Dean got a lot better at saying “she” instead of “he”, and Sam’s therapist finally let her start transitioning. Dean was really worried that it would somehow mess her up, but Sam convinced him she’d still be herself. They haven’t really talked surgery yet, and Sam isn’t sure how Dean would take the fact she doesn’t want surgery. She doesn’t want him to be weirded out.

Dean worries a lot about what other people might think. And for good reason– he’s concerned that she’ll get ambushed at a rougher bar, or singled out somewhere else public. With Sam’s anxiety already a factor, Dean’s protective instincts begin to kick in, big-time.

But Sam isn’t worried about that. If anyone ever did try to start something, they’d have to deal with Dean. A very rage-filled, furious Dean Winchester.

Sam just doesn’t want Dean to think she’s a freak. She knows that’s almost impossible. With their new closeness, nothing in heaven or hell could possibly separate them, and that fact is what keeps Sam going every time it gets hard or the nightmares are too vivid.

Dean’s always right there, whispering calming words to her and tightening his grasp around her waist. From what Sam can tell, Dean doesn’t see anything weird about their sleeping arrangements, and she isn’t going to complain. If she could spend her whole life wrapped up in Dean, with his scent all around her, she would do it without a second thought.

Which is why it takes her a second to react when he walks into her room, looks at them standing together in Sam’s mirror, smiling with soft eyes, and reaches up to press a soft kiss to Sam’s lips.

The part of her that looks up to Dean, fawns over him and covets him, responds immediately, her mouth opening up to let him in. A second later, she is pressing a hand flat against his chest, lightly pushing him away.

He goes easy. He takes a step back, looking up at her with wide eyes. Something fights there for a few seconds before his gaze is kind again, and his hands shoot up to Sam’s face, framing her cheekbones, his thumbs gently brushing over the dip beneath her eyes as if he can’t restrain himself. “God,” he breathes out, his stunning eyes flicking between hers, “didn’t mean to… you’re just so beautiful, Sammy, so gorgeous. My Sam,” he adds in a hush that sounds like worship.

“Dean,” she fumbles, her heart moving steadily up her throat, poised to climb out of her and into Dean, “Dean, what.”

“Tell me it’s just me,” Dean says again, sounding like he’s just run a thousand miles, “tell me it’s just me, and I stop, and we never mention this again.”

Sam swallows. “But I’m… Dean, I’m this. This isn’t what you wan’t.”

Dean scoffs, and his eyes narrow as he shoots a sharp glare at her. “I like girls. You’re a girl. And you’re Sam. I’ve… I’ve always wanted Sam. Even if I didn’t get it at first, even if I woulda taken that to the grave, before.”

Sam startles, an electric current running from her feet to her head. “You mean that?” she asks, her voice lowered to a small whisper.

Dean runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck, Sammy, I really do. And ain’t that crazy?”

A laughter that sounds a little manic bubbles out of Sam. “Then I’m crazy, too.”

Dean smiles, all teeth and darkness in his eyes, moving back into her space with the fluid grace of a python. He reaches up to put an arm around her neck, his nose brushing against her’s. “You sure?” he murmurs, and his eyes are so close. Sam can’t stop staring at them, at their impossible greenness. Like a field in the height of summer.

She kisses him lightly on the lips, chastely, blushing crazily, feeling the burn all the way up to ears. “Yeah,” she says.

He kisses her back with more fervor, pushing her lips apart with his. He sucks on her bottom lip and Sam sighs, her eyes fluttering shut as she gives into a sensation she’d fantasized about for years.

Dean’s the one to break them apart. His arms are still wrapped around her neck as he pulls back and smiles up at her. “Didn’t mean to spring this on you… just seein’ you happy and beautiful, I was sick of just watching.”

“I was sick of waiting, too,” Sam assures him, and Dean leans back, taking his hands away from Sam and Sam misses the warm press of Dean’s body against hers.

Dean tugs on the cuff of her shirtsleeve, moves over to the door. “Breakfast and more making out?” he says, his cheeks heating up after like he’s surprised he even said it.

Sam walks over and ruffles his hair. “Sounds like a good plan, shorty.”

Dean rolls his eyes as he opens the door. “Looks like you’re getting a little special sauce in your pancakes, Sammy, chef’s special.”

“If it’s a certain sauce, I might not mind so much,” Sam says, but immediately groans, covering her eyes. “Oh god, that was so cheesy. You can’t ever hold that one over me.”

Dean grins and slaps her lightly on the back. “Don’t worry. I know you were all flustered because of my skilled lips, it’s okay.”

Sam elbows him back. “Egotist,” she accuses as they make their way through their cavernous home.

***

Sam is unaccustomed to the feeling of her life passing by, but she doesn’t exactly hate it.

A lot of her days are one and the same, a rhythmic routine that whittles away the hours faster than her mind can keep track of. She sits in the Impala sometimes, tracing the vinyl seats and the shiny chrome buttons, looking up at the sky as it opens up and pours down on the car, the soothing susurrus and low rumble of thunder making her eyelids heavy and drooping. She reads, writes, walks, and does quite a lot of thinking. The more weeks that pass, the easier it is for her to remember without choking up or freezing. She even lets herself recall hell, because Dean says it only hurts more to keep it bottled up. Sometimes she wakes at night to find Dean sitting up, fiddling listlessly with the edge of the covers like some lifeless ghost. He whispers about his time in hell, about Gadreel, about their dad. She whispers back.

And when they feel fine enough to get back under the covers and curl up around each other, neither of them have anything but peaceful, serene dreams.

Her body slowly adjusts to the estrogen, and she has an album of photos on her phone that show her changing, slowly but surely, into a more feminine person, and each day that passes pours warmth and security into her bones. She never thought she’d be rid of her nightmares and fears, her self-loathing. She never thought she’d be able to have a relationship with Dean, or become herself and have Dean call her a girl. All of this seems so surreal, so perfect, she can’t help but fear it’s a charade. She’s still in the cage. While she makes progress every day, she can’t help but doubt that she deserves any of this.

She worries that once her mind is alright, Dean will want to get back into hunting. That once she’s fully recovered, it’s back into the fire. She knows Deans thoughts on most anything, but she can’t tell if he misses it. If he wants it back.

And then, like a savior in denim and plaid, Dean reads her thoughts and curls his arms around her, whispering into her ear about the life they’ve made for themselves and how proud he is. That’s when she can’t give a damn if it’s real or not. It’s all she’s ever wanted.

It’s been around five more months, and yesterday Dean bought her a skirt because of the anniversary of her transitioning. He celebrates each month, and while Sam finds it unbearably ridiculous and dramatic, she never stops him. Today, she puts it on for the first time and shaves her legs, coming out of the bathroom to surprise Dean, who is lounging on their bed with a beer and  _Back to the Future part II_  on the television.

The moment he sees her, his eyes rake up and down her body, painstakingly slowly, paying special attention to her thighs and hips. His eyes darken and he bites his lip. Sam has to cross her legs because her cock is beginning to fatten in her panties at the way Dean’s undressing her with his eyes.

That thought slaps her in the face. Dean won’t want…  _that_. He loves her, yes, as more than a sister, but Sam knows Dean. She knows all of his sexual partners, knows they all had big tits and a clit between their legs, not a hairy, flat chest, and a dick. She knows he could never possibly be completely attracted to her, not if she was naked. While she might look all fine and pretty on the outside, and he can look all he wants, that’s as far as it will ever go.

She’s flaccid again and the blush has melted away from her cheeks. The skirt feels too short and her bulge too apparent, and for christ’s sake, she bought the panties herself, Dean never had. Of course he wouldn’t.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice makes her look up again.

“It’s nothing,” she assures quickly, a mockery of a smile forming across her lips. “I’ve gotta get back into my sweats, then we can have dinner.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, why change?” Dean asks, all cheshire cat when he grins up at her. “I’m liking what I see here.”

Sam sighs. “No, you’re really not.”

She turns and goes into the bathroom without another word.

She feels like a child when she tears the skirt off and throws it in the corner, her vision blurring over. Her eyes burn. Her cheeks burn. Everything burns, and her fingers feel restless, begging to twitch and shake until it spreads to the rest of her body like a plague. No. She won’t let that happen. She’s moved past attacks like that, she’s better now.

Thinking that doesn’t stop the sob of frustration as she yanks her panties off, unable to look down at herself. Usually she’s fine with this, she didn’t want any big surgery, but thinking of Dean out there and how much she wants him, she can’t deal with it. Tears spill over as she puts boxers on instead, and baggy sweats over that which slide over her soft legs. She leans against the counter, too aware of her awkward height and her broad shoulders, and all the other imperfections that make it impossible for Dean to love her. And she really,  _really_  doesn’t blame him. It’s something he can’t help. She puts her face in her hands and takes a big, shuddery sigh, ineffectually trying to make herself presentable in seconds.

A soft knock raps against the door. “Sammy…” Dean says, and she hears his palm slide down against the wood. “Can you come out?”

“In a moment,” she says, and the weak waver of her voice echoes loudly against the bathroom tiles, causing her to wince. She hears Dean’s footsteps pad back to the bed. She rolls her shoulders, mentally prepping herself, and steps back outside.

Dean stares at her. She stares back, lingering in the doorway. Dean slouches a little, and looks away, patting the bed next to him. She’s dreading this conversation, but she goes, sitting on the very edge of the bed and playing idly with the drawstring of her pants.

Dean coughs. “You wanna tell me what’s upsetting you?”

Sam’s lip curls. “You know what it is.”

Dean shifts, uncrossing and re-crossing his leg. “Is it because we’ve never gone farther than making out?”

“I don’t blame you,” Sam sighs. “I just don’t want to pretend there’s something here when there isn’t.”

Dean turns to face her, his jaw ticking. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look, Dean, c'mon,” she pleads, “I’m not saying you don’t feel something for me. I know you do. But honestly? Sex is out of the question, isn’t it? You’re not attracted to dicks. I don’t have what you want. Not on my chest, not down there. And I can’t make that happen. And I get it, really, I do.”

Dean’s face flickers and spasms through emotions like a malfunctioning television screen through channels. She reads them all easy as they pass by in a moment’s notice: anger, confusion, hurt, determination, among other things. He leans into her space, a vein standing out on his forehead. “Don’t,” he gasps, the puffs of breath warm on Sam’s face, “don’t you ever doubt what I have for you. Don’t you doubt it.”

Sam frowns, her eyes watery and sympathetic as she meets his fiery gaze. “I’m not,” she says quietly, “I’m just saying you don’t have to force yourself to do anything. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Dean swears once before his hand curls around Sam’s neck and presses her close, roughly, his lips meeting hers in urgent, desperate need. She feels all wrong, and Dean never said anything out loud, and she thinks he’s afraid. She lets him kiss her, lets his tongue press against hers and slide against the roof of her mouth, but her mind is thinking the whole time, working itself into dreary circles, and she can’t help it.

Dean pushes her back onto the bed, following her down with his mouth and growling. He slides lower, nosing her chin until she lifts her neck so he can bite and suck at the tender spot there. He works his way slowly up to her ear, nibbling her flesh until it’s sensitive and red.

“Lay back,” he says, his voice animalistic and guttural, and she follows his orders without question, shuffling backward onto the bed until her head hits the pillow. Dean climbs back over her, grabbing her shirt with his hands and together they lift it over her shoulders. His hands briefly cup at her small tits before they slide lower, rubbing up and down her sides. Despite her thoughts, her body responds to him, warming up under his touch, sparking to life with need. He attacks her mouth again, and she thinks she tastes iron, that maybe in his fervor he split her lip. She opens her mouth wider, swallows his groans, arches her back, lets him spread himself over her.

She lets out a small moan and feels his hands wander lower across her tummy. She gets lost in the feeling, in how long it’s been since she had this, and she doesn’t think of Lucifer, not once, as the blood floods down low in her.

Dean pulls back, a string of spit connecting their mouths, and Sam stares up at him with blown pupils, grabbing her pants and boxers by the waistband and wiggling out of them. Dean bites her neck hard before raising up, bracing himself on his hands and knees and looking down at her, and she wishes she didn’t see it, but he falters, he falters, the disappointment clouding over his eyes and he freezes just long enough for her to push him away and sit up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

She bites her trembling lip and pushes her hair behind her ear, then runs her hand over her head, smoothing the stray locks down. She shakes only slightly as she puts her clothes back on for the second time that day, tucking her hard dick into the waistband of her pants. She stands, her back cracking.

“Sam, wait,” Dean rasps as she makes her way to the door.

“It’s fine,” she says in an even tone, not turning to face him. She keeps her eyes forward and grabs the doorknob, turning it. “I told you, I don’t blame you. You can’t help it. I’m gonna start cooking dinner, okay? I’m starving.”

She opens the door and hurries out before Dean even has the chance to open his mouth.

She goes into the walk-in pantry beside the kitchen and cries silently for a little bit. She rubs at her eyes, mentally berates herself for any weakness, and grabs the ingredients she needs, freeing her soft cock from where she trapped it. She washes her hands and busies herself with making pasta.

When the pasta’s just about finished cooking, Dean comes in, his hair sticking up in odd places. He takes a seat at the table and Sam serves him a plate of pasta, al dente, how he likes it. She gives him a beer and sits down across from him. They eat their meal in silence, and when they’re finished, Dean excuses himself. Sam cleans up alone and heads to her old room to do some reading. She doesn’t think she can be in the same room as Dean right now, and she hates the jagged crack in their picture-perfect life. A part of her, scarred and weary and trapped deep inside her, isn’t surprised at all.

***

Dean goes to a bar.

Sam knows because he comes home smelling like whiskey and booze, and his footsteps are uncoordinated, stumbling as he trips his way over to the bed. He falls on top of her, fully clothed and grumbling, and she notices that he doesn’t smell like sex or someone else’s perfume.

“Dean,” she groans, shuffling out from underneath him, “christ, how much did you drink?”

He slurs something unintelligible and she turns on the light, helping him out of his shoes. He somehow manages to get down to a tshirt and boxers without breaking anything. He tries to kiss her, but his breath is practically rancid and she shoves him away, getting up and padding to the bathroom to pour him a glass of water. She sits on the bed and helps him drink it. She tucks him in, flicking off the light and plunging them back into darkness. She slides in beside him, leaving a gap between them. She curls on her side, facing away from him, and closes her eyes, willing herself to go back to sleep.

Dean grunts again, and tosses, the bed squeaking beneath him. She hears the sheets shuffle as he turns on his side to face her. A hand touches her shoulder and runs down her arm before disappearing. Dean sighs.

“I want.” He coughs. “I want to love you. I want to.”

Sam’s eyes open back up and she stares at the wall. “I know you do,” she tells him softly.

Dean groans and tosses some more, tangling himself up in the sheets. He doesn’t say anything more, and Sam lies awake for hours, listening to his breath evening out and the quiet tick of the clock on the wall.

She knows Dean wants sex. Part of her wishes he’d actually gotten laid at the bar. Dean deserves a nice, soft body, someone to slip into and move with. She hates that it’s a problem between them, hates that she doesn’t know the answer.

She doesn’t get any sleep that night.

***

In the morning, she wakes up alone. She turns, stretching her toes, to find the other side of the bed unoccupied, the rumpled sheets pulled back and cold. She rubs at her eyes and lays there for a moment, trying to suss up any strength she might have. It’s starting to feel like one of those days where even getting out of bed is a feat of willpower. In a moment of weakness, she rolls across the bed, pressing her face into Dean’s pillow and enjoying how his familiar scent curls around her. The world is soft and quiet around her.

She falls out of bed and steps out of her clothes, hopping about, and yanks on a different pair of boxers and a t-shirt. She thinks she thinks the shirt’s one of Dean’s, because it’s a bit short, and tight around the shoulders. With bleary eyes, she shrugs on her favorite comfort hoodie, a dark brown one, that Dean diligently sewed up and scrubbed the bloodstains out of. Warm and snug, she heads out to face the day, following the smell of bacon to the kitchen on bare feet.

Dean’s at the stove, his “kiss the chef” apron tied around his waist, he’s just barely shaking his hips, humming along to a song that only he can hear. Sam can’t help but grin at the sight before her and she feels a little warmer. She moves into the kitchen, brushing past Dean to grab some milk out of the fridge.

“Pour me a glass too, will you?” he says before resuming his tune.

She sets the glasses down on the table and sits, stretching. She plays with her phone while Dean finishes cooking. When he’s done, he comes over toting two plates and sets a heaping pile of bacon and pancakes down in front of Sam. He combs fingers through her hair before moving over to his seat, poking her foot with his own.

“So, Sammy,” Dean says, giving her an even stare, “do you think you can stay in your old room for a couple hours today?”

She frowns, feeling her throat clog up and strain at his words. She buries everything down, stifles it completely. “Sure,” she tells him, proud of how firm her voice is. “Whatever you want, Dean.”

She leaves him there, breakfast half finished, and once she’s out of his sight, she breaks into a run, yanking her door open and falling onto the bed, curling her arms into the pillow and breathing in short shudders like her lungs have forgotten how to function. She won’t break. She owes that to herself. She spends a silent moment pulling herself together.

She heaves herself into an upright position, moving about until she’s cross-legged on her bed. She looks around her room, at the half-filled bookshelf, the cluttered desk, the boxes stacked in the corner; all covered in a fine layer of dust. The walls are bare. The shelves and closets are empty. The few, scant traces of herself she’d put in here at Dean’s request have since been moved into Dean’s room, spread about with Dean’s things. Hell, they even started calling it Their Room, but Sam guesses she might need to shake that habit from now on.

She rubs at her nose and sniffles, wondering why the universe suddenly decided to take back all its gifts to her. Her eyes lose focus as she gets lost in thought. She hates this room, always has, hates how it’s way down the hall and around a corner from Dean’s and how it’s always cold and empty and makes her think too much. She wonders what Dean’s doing right now, if he’s happy, if he’s going to go out to a bar later. She wonders how he feels about her right now and can’t hazard a single guess. The thought leaves her stomach unsettled, and she frowns, throwing back the covers and patting them with her palms flat, watching how little clouds of dust puff up from the material like mushrooms. She slides in, shivering at how cold the bottom sheet is, and tugs everything back up and snuggles down. The sheet is up around her nose, just how she likes it, and she puts her back to the door, closing her eyes.

It’s all she can do to breathe evenly.

She wakes up in a vertigo haze, feeling like she’s been shoved and dragged into reality, her heart beating like hummingbird’s wings. She sits up, the blankets pooling in her lap, and rubs at her crusty eyes. Sweat beads at her temples. She’s come out of a nightmare, she’s positive, still shaking the clingy, cobwebby, sickly feelings they come with, the feeling of being chased, attacked, sullied right down to her soul.

At eye level is a red plaid shirt by her bedside and she immediately knows why she was awoken. She arches her back, sighing at the liquid feeling that goes through her spine, trying her damndest to be coherent. She blinks owlishly, looking up at Dean’s face. He’s on the smile side of neutral, his lips lifting in a barely-discernible crescent shape. She’s too groggy to be mad at him, or even disappointed or afraid. She has no idea why he’s here, and a quick glance at the nightstand clock tells her she was napping for an hour.

So she waits for him to speak.

He shifts, leaning back on his heels, his hands hidden behind his back. He clears his throat, opens his mouth, and promptly shuts it. He falls down onto the bed next to her, their knees bumping. She makes herself stay still, stay quiet, and she knows Dean is struggling with something. She trusts him to come clean. If the past year-and-some have taught her anything, it’s that he has learned to do that. They both have.

He claps her on the back once, leaving his hand at the base of her neck like a warm brand. “Sammy, I’ve got a surprise for you. But, you uh, can’t go in our bedroom right now, so I brought you some clothes. I picked the ones I thought were the nicest, so sorry if I’ve got shit taste.”

His arm leaves her back and he hands her one of her pairs of skinny jeans, with a shredded bit near the thigh. After comes a bra, matching panties, a white tank top, and one of her softer purple plaid shirts. She takes them and stares down at the pile in her lap. Her throat feels thick again, but now for an entirely different reason.

“This is why you didn’t want me around the bunker?” she asks, her voice thin. “For a surprise?”

Dean takes one look at her face and covers his own with a hand. “Fuck, god, that’s why you left so fast. I thought– we didn’t talk enough, did we? Sorry, kiddo. It’s nothin’ bad, I swear. I  _promise_.”

Sam smiles at him with shiny eyes. “It’s okay,” she says. “Did you want me to get ready?”

He nods, but his eyes light up and he straightens, shoving a hand into his pockets. “Oh, and I brought these. I wasn’t sure what you’d wanna put on, 'cause I’m shit with this stuff. I just brought a lot.” He pulls out several shiny tubes of eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick, some hair clips, and a brush for blush but nothing else.

Her smile widens until it’s taking over her whole face, long dimples cutting lines in her cheeks. “Get out,” she tells him, shoving him away. “Wait outside the door. I’ll come out when I’m ready.”

Dean laughs and Sam feels some of her anxiety bleed away. “I’m going,” he tells her, getting up and leaving, shutting the door quietly behind himself.

Sam lets out a big breath, looks down at the pile in her lap, and widens her eyes. She places her things on the bed and runs over to the mirror, hurriedly rubbing dust off of it with the hem of her shirt. She gathers up everything and dumps it on the dresser. First she steps into the clothes, leaving the purple shirt open to show her undershirt. She lets it hang off one shoulder. She puts a few clips in her hair and manages to find a stray hairband in the dresser drawers. She braids a small portion of her hair, letting the rest fall in waves and curls around her shoulders. She puts on a thick line of eyeliner, mascara, and leaves her lips as they are, wetting them and shifting from foot to foot, thinking about Dean waiting outside. It feels like it’s been so long since she’s dressed herself up, and she’s nervous.

Giving herself a glare in the scratchy mirror, she moves over to the door. She leans her forehead against it and closes her eyes for a brief moment before she opens it. Dean’s leaning against the opposite wall, ankles crossed, and he looks up when he hears her come out. His eyes widen and he grins toothily. He bird whistles at her, wiggling his eyebrows.

Sam blushes red and ducks her head, hugging her arms around her waist. “Shut up,” she mumbles, her smile bleeding through her words.

Dean moves into her space, grabbing her by the wrists and gently prying her arms away from her body. He smooths his hands over her shoulders and looks up at her, his pupils dilated. She looks back, swallowing, staring at the smattering of freckles across his cheeks like poppies in a field. His cheekbones are high and pronounced and Sam can’t help but reach up and trace them with her thumbs. Something heats up in Dean’s gaze and he curls his arms around her neck, pressing up against her and kissing her.

Sam loses herself in the kiss. She revels in the softness of Dean’s lips, in the slip-side of his tongue in her mouth. His breath and body are warm, and god, does he know how to kiss. She gives it all she’s got, letting her mouth fall open and letting him in.

He hums contentedly against her but pulls back, licking his lips. “We good?” he asks in a hoarse voice.

Sam doesn’t trust her words. She nods at him, her cheeks aching, the smile refusing to leave her face.

He nods back and steps away, moving down the hall toward the bunker library. “Follow me,” he calls, and she jogs to catch up with him, curious as to what’s in store for her. As the hall opens up, her breath catches in her chest as she looks around. One of the tables in the center has been covered by a white cloth, and a line of tall candles litters the middle of it. Two plates are set out with steak and greens and mashed potatoes, and wine glasses sit next to them, filled up with red wine. The bunker’s main lighting system has been shut off, leaving only the orangey-glowing lamps on the tables and the flickering lights of the candles. The record player’s on again, playing a vinyl of one of Sam’s current favorite alternative bands. Sam wonders when Dean had time to set all of this up.

“How long have you been planning this?” she asks.

Dean shrugs, looking pleased with himself and rosy. “I wanted to make it special for you.”

Sam frowns. “Make what special?”

Dean shrugs again, biting his lip, and his eyes dance in the low light. “I was gonna wait 'til dinner to do this, but you didn’t eat much of your breakfast, and well, I couldn’t wait. Join me?” He walks over to the table, pulling out a chair and waiting next to it. Sam steps over to him, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear as she sits down in the offered chair. He hums along to the music and walks around to the other side of the table, the candle’s dancing movements sharpening his features with soft gold light and deep, dark accents. He looks gorgeous, and he’s dressed up, too, in one of his best grey henleys. It makes him look absolutely sinful, in Sam’s humble opinion.

He sits, offering up his wine glass. Sam clinks hers against it.

“To you,” Dean rumbles, leaning back.

Sam hesitates a moment. “To me,” she replies, feeling safe and still, not a single shake through her.

They drink at the same time.

The rest of the meal is spent having comfortable conversation. Dean jests, Sam shoots something back, they laugh. Sometimes Dean will get a strange look in his eyes and shift in his seat, pressing a hand into his lap. Sam ignores it, her cheeks remaining a deep pink shade, and eats her steak.

Sam’s finishing up on her potatoes when Dean says her name. She looks up, raising an eyebrow, still chewing.

“Do you remember when you were eight years old and you wouldn’t let go of that purple dog shirt even though it was way too big?” Dean laughs. “It was like a friggin’ men’s large or something.”

Sam nods. “Yeah…?”

Dean smiles. “You wore it as a dress. You’ve always loved purple. I should’ve seen who you are so much earlier, and I’m sorry for that.”

Sam’s eyes fill and her smile softens. She chuckles, her hair falling into her face. “You have nothing to apologize for,” she tells him, “you’ve… you’ve always been there. You know that, right?”

“I can’t believe we’re…” Dean’s voice sounds thick and he rubs a hand across his eyes. “Same back to you, alright? Always. God, this is like a Lifetime movie or some shit…”

Sam kicks him under the table. “Don’t ruin the moment,” she says lightly.

Dean just kicks her back, and they finish up their food. Dean forces Sam to sit back and relax while he hurries about, cleaning everything up. He blows out the candles and Sam stares at the “o” shape of his lips. When he’s done, he takes her hand in the dark.

“Ready for part two?” he murmurs, his mouth right at her ear.

She shivers and nods. He keeps waiting. She looks around at the fuzzy darkness. “Oh. I was nodding my head. Um, yes,” she fumbles, and he tugs her along into the hallway, Sam blindly following him in.

She knows without seeing when they pass her room and several others, their main bathroom. As they turn the corner toward Dean’s room, she can see a spread of dim light bleeding out onto the floor from the bottom of Dean’s door. Eyes slowly adjusting, she watches as Dean opens the door. He goes in and she shuffles in behind him, keeping her eyes lowered to the floor, speckled with rose petals, trying to prolong the reveal of the rest of the surprise.

She hears Dean scoff. “Look up, asshat.”

“That wasn’t romantic at all…” she trails off, her mouth dropping open as she looks around their room. Red, sweet-smelling candles dot the room, turning everything dark and bloody. Her laptop is open to a video of a crackling fireplace. There are more petals on the bed, and on the nightstand, she notices a condom and a bottle of lube.

Her cheeks heat up. “No, Dean, c'mon.”

His face falls. He steps toward her, careful not to slip on flower petals. “You don’t like it?” he asks, with a hurt edge to his voice.

“Of course I love it,” she starts, “you took this from my book, right? You read it?”

Dean nods and looks down. “I didn’t mean to pry, I probably shoulda asked first. But your writing was beautiful, and Sammy, c'mon, even a moron can see that the two romantic leads are you and me. I thought it’d be nice to recreate this scene.”

She sighs. “You don’t need to feel obligated to do anything. If you don’t want to have sex with me, that’s fine. I’m not exactly carrying around the equipment that comes with your track record.”

Dean groans, moving closer and shaking her by the shoulders. “Sam. Sam, please. Would you stop thinking that? You saw me hesitate one time and just ran for the hills. You didn’t even let me explain myself.”

“You didn’t really try to, you just did all this,” Sam mumbles, and regrets saying it the moment it comes out of her mouth.

There’s a few beats where Dean just looks at her, his lips thin. He shakes his head, looking suddenly exhausted.

“I hesitated because I was afraid, yeah,” he says, voice low. “But I was never afraid of you. Did you think I was fucking dumb, Sammy? I knew you had a dick. I was afraid because it made me hard. I was afraid because you are my little sister, and I was staring at you like a piece of meat…”

He swallows. “I’ve never been with someone with a dick, yeah. But I am attracted to you, goddammit. And that scares me. It’s just new, okay? This thing we have… us… it’s new, too, and I’m just nervous, okay? You got me. But I fucking  _want_ you, Sammy, I have for so long. I want you so bad. What did you think I did when you left?”

Sam can’t speak, her eyes red and her throat full. She shrugs.

Dean laughs. “I fucking jerked off and came in like, a minute. It was embarrassing, really, but I couldn’t get you out of my head.”

“You better not be fucking with me,” Sam threatens, stepping toward him.

“I’d rather be fucking you,” Dean shoots back, all arrogance and ego, grinning cockily up at her.

“No.” Sam says. “No, with you, I don’t want to fuck. More, okay? More.”

Dean nods, running his hands up and down her arms. “It’s always been more with you, idiot.”

Sam grins. “You sure?”

Dean rolls his eyes and punches her lightly. “Super sure.”

Sam gets rid of the tiny space left between them, her toes bumping into Dean’s. She looks down at him, and he looks right back up, never shying away, never pulling back.

She believes him.

She initiates the kiss this time, and Dean groans into her mouth like he’s been going without water and she made it start pouring. He grabs her head and tilts her jaw, fitting his mouth against hers in a way that should be illegal, it’s so perfect. Dean wastes no time in getting dirty, plunging his tongue into her mouth. Sam shivers and lets him in, obedient, letting him control their dance. Dean breaks apart for a moment to pant, rubbing his neck against her cheek. Then he’s sliding back, opening her mouth up wide.

Sam’s whole body feels like Dean set it aflame, and shes breathing loudly through her nose. Spit floods her mouth as she runs her tongue along Dean’s bottom lip, content just to make out with him for the rest of eternity.

But Dean has other plans. He makes a little frustrated noise before pulling back, wiping his spit off Sam’s bottom lip with his finger. She lets him, dropping her mouth open slightly, and he curses, pushing a finger into Sam’s mouth.

Sam’s eyes darken as she meets his heated gaze, sucking Dean’s finger into her mouth and licking it slick.

Dean pulls his finger away and smashes them together in a brief, rough kiss. “God, on the bed, please,” he murmurs, his voice dark and weak.

Sam is more than happy to follow his every command. She crawls onto the bed, lifting her ass up as she makes her way up. She flips and lays back, spreading her legs. She’s so hard it’s making her dizzy, and she’s seeing the one downside to skinny jeans: they’re too fucking constricting. She reaches down, fumbling with the top button on her jeans, but Dean’s hand stops her.

“Let’s take this part slowly,” he says, biting his lip.

Sam presses a hand against her jeans but nods. She’s aware that her face is probably beet red and her hair a mess. Her lips, too. She must look so debauched. She can tell Dean likes that.

“You first,” she says, tugging on the collar of his shirt.

He scoots forward until he’s straddling her lap, legs folded on either side of her hips. He grabs the bottom of his shirt and tugs it over his head, tossing it into the corner of the room. In the low lighting, his chest is a work of art, with bold slashes of curves and golden lines. He’s no Adonis, no sculpted bodybuilder or anything, but he takes Sam’s breath away all the same. Since they retired, he’s gained a little weight, his belly softening out and getting a little more pudge. His nipples are dark and peaked, and his tattoo is stark and bold above his heart.

She takes her time looking, and Dean coughs, squirming. She shushes him, pressing a hand over his tummy and running it over his soft skin.

“Sam…” he says softly, and she looks up at him, seeing his down-turned eyes. It hits her with surprise. He’s insecure about his body. That makes two of them, then.

“Shut up,” she says warmly, drawing her hand lower and running it through his wiry happy trail. “You’re beautiful.”

Dean bends forward to kiss her softly, and as much as she hates to, Sam breaks it off early, pressing her fingers into the waistband of his jeans. “These off first,” she says shyly, taking her hands away, the sense-memory of the heat of his cock under his jeans still lingering on her hands.

Dean complies, popping the button and the zipper, moving to one side of her so he can shrug and wiggle out of his jeans. The front of his boxers is stained with precome, his dick tenting obscenely. Sam whimpers and her hips stutter on the mattress. Dean chuckles lowly and slips out of his boxers, straddling her again and rutting down experimentally, squeezing the base of his cock.

“Christ…” Sam breathes, her eyes going heavy as she takes in the thickness of him, the fat, leaking head. He has a messy patch of dark hair around his dick and balls, and she shivers as she thinks about it brushing against her skin. Unable to resist, she puts her hands on his hips, rubbing her thumbs over the small jut of bone. “You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed about this.”

Dean’s hips rock again, just once. “Fuck,” he pants, "fuck, c'mon, Sammy, your turn.”

She slips easily out of her overshirt, and Dean spreads over her to kiss both of her shoulders, one after the other. He traces the bit of her tattoo that peeks out of her shirt. She bats his hands away, peeling away her undershirt and flushing self-consciously once it’s gone, the cold air against her bare skin reminding her of how thin she is, how bony.

Dean’s eyes are almost pure black, downright demonic in the lust that floods through them, and he runs his hands through the small patch of hair on her chest, rubbing her nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

She gasps, arching up at the feeling, her cock twitching in her pants.

“You like that, huh?” Dean murmurs, tweaking her left nipple. “So sensitive, aren’t ya?”

“Dean, please,” Sam begs, her voice reed-thin, “G-god.”

He plays with her nipples for a moment longer, her body shuddering and moving underneath him, before he spreads his palms over her sides, rubbing her there, spreading more warmth throughout her body. Her hips are sharp, her waist slim, and he maps his way across the pink scars there, unable to stop touching her.

Sam doesn’t think she’s ever been loved like this before in her life. She already knows Dean’s worship is a drug, and she can feel it in her bones that his love will be the death of her. She has trouble believing she can mean this much to someone, be so beautiful, so adored, but she thinks about her love for Dean and everything seems to slip right into place.

They take off her jeans together, Dean hovering over her as she lifts up onto her elbows and wriggles out of them. He pulls them all the way off. Her cock is trapped and pushing up against the simple white cotton panties Dean had her wear, and the fabric is wet and dark where it meets the head of her dick.

Dean jerks himself off roughly, his palm sliding up and down the base of his dick, precome spurting out of the head, his eyes glued on her waist. He bites his bottom lip, squeezing his eyes shut, and groans, slipping his hand down and wrapping his hand tightly there, willing himself to last longer. He reopens her eyes, regarding her red face.

“We gotta put you in a schoolgirl outfit sometime,” Dean croaks, rubbing a thumb over her cockhead through her panties.

Her breath punches out of her and her hips push up against him with a will of their own. Her fingers grip at the sheets, turning the knuckles white. “M-more, Dean,  _please, more_.”

Dean growls like a feral animal and slides down her body, rubbing his cheek against her cock like an affectionate cat. He lifts up, breathing over her dick, and her dick strains to meet his mouth, bouncing. He puts his finger under the waistband of her panties and slips them down past her thighs and knees. She kicks them off onto the floor, and Dean’s eyes are still glued to her down there, and she knows her entire body is blushing. The attention makes her nervous, but she also craves it, a blurt of precome shining at the head of her cock.

Dean seems keen to look. He’s got a hand around his base again, holding himself off, and his other hand is gripping Sam’s hip, his nails digging into the soft skin there. Her dick is huge and long, she knows, but pretty feminine too: it’s thin, “twink-thin”, Brady once said, a milky-pale color covered in curling veins and crowned with a fat, pink head. She’s been shaving it bare for awhile now. She’s aware she’s got a beautiful cock, but it doesn’t stop her from squirming a little when Dean keeps staring silently for several more moments.

Dean’s hand leaves his dick and moves to hers, his fingers wrapping around her length but pausing there.

“Tell me if I’m doing something wrong. Never done this before,” Dean says haltingly.

Sam covers his hand with hers and moves them slowly up and down her shaft, shivering at the feeling. “Just do to me what you like doing to yourself,” she tells him, breathless.

His lids droop as he gives her a feline grin. “That I can do.”

He starts off slow, squeezing her at her base and pushing upward, bunching the skin under her cockhead. He rubs at the bundle of nerves there, then presses his thumb into her slit, causing her to writhe and shudder on the bed.

 _“Fuuuuuck_ ,” she moans, low in her throat, arching her back and baring her neck. “Don’t stop.”

Dean hums, pleased, and ups the pace, his palm sliding against the sensitive spot on the underside of her cock with each up and downstroke. He smears his thumb in the continuous precome that’s leaking out of her, using it to slick his way as he tugs at her cock in a way that makes her eyes roll up in her head. 

“So wet for me, baby,” he murmurs, smiling at the way her heavy breaths turn to whimpers, her hands clenching and unclenching erratically at her sides. He holds her dick up with a fist and sinks his mouth down around her, taking her as far into his mouth as he can without gagging. The part of her he can’t fit in, he keeps jerking off with his hand, sealing his lips around her length and hollowing out his cheeks.

Sam screams, her toes curling. She gasps, her eyes fluttering crazily. He had moved so fast, without warning, and  _god_. She’s used Dean’s mouth as masturbation fodder for over a decade and now that same, sinful mouth is slowly bobbing up and down on her cock.

He suckles at her cockhead for a moment, licking up the saltly precome. He pops off her for a bit, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and working his jaw.

“Where the fuck did you learn how to do that?!” Sam moan/whimpers, her voice octaves higher than usual.

Dean looks smug, his lips shiny with her precome. “Watched some porn. To study.”

Sam smacks the back of his head. “My god, just… keep doing that.”

He goes right back to work, swiping his tongue over the underside of her dick as he slowly slides up and down, always sucking around the head each time he comes up. He presses down as far as he can, his hand twisting around her base, and abruptly speeds up, adding more spit and tongue.

Sam has died. She has died and ascended to a realm above heaven, somewhere better than what even god could conceive of, and it’s all Dean’s mouth’s fault, damn his quick learning skills. She feels a tightening in her cock and her balls draw up, and Dean pops off then, sitting back on his haunches between her knees.

“What the fuck?” Sam demands, curling her own hand around her shiny dick and stroking.

“Don’t want you to come like that,” Dean growls, “want you to come when I’m inside you.”

Oh,  _fuck. Fuck fuck fuck_. Sam nods eagerly, her hair falling into her face with her enthusiasm. “I want it too. I want it so bad,  _shit._ ”

Dean briefly rubs a finger over her balls before he crawls over her to reach the lube and condom on the bedside table. He comes back, sitting between her legs with the bottle and foil packet in hand. Dean clears his throat. “If I do anything wrong, if I hurt you…”

Sam shushes him and hits him on the thigh. “I’ve done this before,” she assures him, “I can help you.”

Dean nods, then freezes, narrowing his eyes at her. “Wait, when the fuck have you done this before?”

She shrugs, grinning up at him and winking. “I’ve done it loads of times,” she says offhandedly.

Dean pokes her in the chest. “No dick until you spill.”

“I think the spilling happens after dicking.”

Dean can’t help but laugh. “You know what I mean. Time’s a-waistin’, Sammy girl.”

She groans, pressing the bases of her palms against her eyes. “I’ll skip the first kisses and handjobs. Real sex? Brady. Jess pegged me. Joe from the town with the Whore of Babylon. Loads of guys while soulless. No one since that. Happy?”

Dean glares at her, his eyes now mere slits. “I’m not your fucking first?”

She recognizes the possessiveness in his tone and softens. “You’ll be my real first since I got back,” she murmurs.

His face melts. He sets the lube against her hip and opens the condom, spreading it over his dick. Sam watches, her breath catching in her chest, her dick straining against her tummy as Dean slowly opens the lube, keeping eye contact with her the whole time. He pours a generous amount into his hand, slicking it over his fingers. He pauses.

“You trust me?” he asks.

Sam answers by spreading her legs open, biting the inside of her cheek. Dean asks her again with his eyes and she meets his gaze head-on, pouring her trust and security into him. He nods, putting his palm against the inside of her thigh. His skin is warm, and he gently spreads her further open, revealing her hole, hairless like her cock and balls. Dean puts the pad of his forefinger against it, rubbing back and forth, and she closes her eyes, moaning quietly. “Go on,” she urges him.

He obliges, pressing the first knuckle in and fucking her slowly and shallowly on it. It burns at first, her hole tight and unused– she hasn’t done this in a long time. But she trusts him, willing her body to relax, to let him in. He feels the muscles relax and slowly presses the rest of his finger inside. She gasps, adjusting to the feeling of something inside her after so long. It doesn’t quite feel good yet, but she knows she needs to be opened up first, that it needs work.

Dean keeps going. Soon, his finger fits without problem, snug against her soft walls. He adds more lube to his finger and works at loosening her up.

“Sorry it’s taking so long, I just…” she blushes, turning her head away on the pillow.

“Glad to take my time, Sammy,” he says, and moves a little deeper.

Sam starts. “Crook your finger up a little when you do that, 'kay?”

Dean rubs up inside her, getting close to that sweet spot, and she jerks again, rolling her hips and pushing his finger deeper inside her. “Another,” she commands.

Dean adds more lube and slides in his second finger with a wet squelch. He fingers her for so long that she ends up slick with sweat and shaking, fucking herself onto him more than he’s moving his hand.

“Okay, okay,” she finally blurts, panting like a cat in heat, “I’m open. I need you in or I’m gonna come.”

“Fuck,” Dean snarls, “Fuck, okay.”

He slicks up his dick with his hand and strokes himself twice before moving forward on his knees, grabbing her leg and lifting it up around his waist. He uses his other hand to line himself up with her puckering hole, pushing slowly in. They both gasp when the head of his cock makes it past the first ring of muscle, staying still for a moment, adjusting to the feeling.

Sam swings up her other leg around his waist until her ankles are crossed over the curve of his ass. She uses her leverage to push him further into herself, and he groans like a dying man, unable to resist.

He fucks her shallowly for awhile, leaning forward to meet her lips in a kiss. She can barely think, being so full of her big brother, but she does her best to make her lips function and kiss Dean back. Her hole is fluttering around his cock, loosening and tightening, and quite frankly, she’s amazed at his restraint.

She groans, moving away from Dean’s kiss to bite his shoulder. “More,” she whines, squeezing her legs again.

“So needy,” Dean breathes, barely above a whisper, “god, can’t believe I’m inside you… so good, Sammy.”

“Feels so good,” she agrees, whimpering as he presses deeper into her, agonizingly slowly sinking down until his balls are against her rim, his pubic hair brushing against her ass.

“God, shit, just fuck me, Dean, please,” she’s quaking, her arms curled around his torso, holding onto him. There’ll probably be bruises on his back after this. Her thighs tremble and twitch, her hole trying to move Dean impossibly deeper.

“M'gonna, babe,” Dean mumbles, and nuzzles her face like a dog, kissing her sweetly before pressing his nose into the crook of her neck and just letting go. He grips her shoulders and lets his hips move of their own volition, his rhythm turning slightly jagged as he pushes harder, deeper, faster, hypnotized by the soft, tight feeling of Sam all around him.

The bed starts bumping against the wall behind them, and Dean used so much lube, almost too much, so every thrust is accompanied by a dirty, wet sound, and Sam can’t get enough of the sensations rippling through her body like electricity. She arches her back, meeting Dean’s thrusts with her hips, the two of them moving in tandem.

She’s sort of out of it because of how the head of Dean’s dick keeps rubbing at her prostate, but she can hear herself making constant noises, each exhale a whimper or a sultry moan. Dean mumbles something against her skin and moves even faster, and she goes “ _ah, ah, ah_ ,” with each push of his hips, unable to stop the noises of pleasure from bubbling out of her.

Dean is all animal now, breathing hard like a marathon runner, his fingernails digging into her skin and his nose trying to bury into her skin. His hips are like a wave, and Sam wishes she could step out of her body and watch him move, admire his ass up in the air as he keeps fucking into her, a sinuous beast of need and love and nothing else.

She knows she’s close by the telltale feelings in her cock and balls, but she wants to savor it for a moment longer, revel in the pulsing feeling of heightening pleasure that races through her. Her hips understand Dean’s, move automatically, adding to the waves of pleasure building deep inside her. One of her legs slides off of Dean’s back because of the sweat slicked there. Her toes curl and she bites off one last whine, pressing Dean flush against her as her eyes flutter shut and she comes, riding on her orgasm for as long as she can, her cock pulsing and throbbing as come coats her chest in long white stripes.

“Did you just–” Dean’s wonder is broken off by his own peak, and his words turn into a sob, his hips stuttering and his balls slaping against her hole. He freezes, seizing up. She can feel his cock twitch inside her as he fills up the condom with come.

They remain like that for a moment, connected to each other, forehead-to-forehead, trying to get their breath back and their racing heartbeats under control. Dean lifts his head, smiling lazily down at her with glazed eyes. He kisses her sloppily, his movements tired and uncoordinated. He slowly raises up and pulls himself out of her, and she sighs at the loss of the full feeling he’d given her. He drops onto the mattress beside her, nosing at her neck before laying on his back and staring at the ceiling.

Feeling bold, Sam shuffles her hand across the bed until it hits Dean’s, and she links her fingers with his. He moves his hand into hers properly, and she smiles up at the ceiling, breathing in sync with her brother.

“That was the best sex I’ve ever had,” she says after a beat.

Dean squeezes her hand. “I have a feeling we’re gonna say that every time.”

Sam laughs once. Her heart soars at the promise embedded in his words. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Dean gets up, slipping into the bathroom. A few of the candles have burned out, so the light of the bathroom, however dim, hurts Sam’s eyes, and she closes them, letting them adjust. She smells come in the air and hears Dean pull off the condom and drop it into the trash. The sink turns on with a squeaky hiss.

Dean comes back and Sam feels a cool cloth wipe gently on her chest, cleaning her up. “Came pretty hard, didn’t'cha?” Dean asks, smile evident in his voice.

Sam keeps her eyes shut, too tired to open them, and hits him half-heartedly on the arm. “You did, too.”

“Can’t deny it.” The cloth moves from her chest down to her hole, and she shivers. Dean apologizes and cleans there quickly. He leaves again, dumping the cloth into the laundry bin.

When he returns, he moves into her space, his hands pushing and prodding at her back until she lets him move her. He’s on her side, and he rolls her onto her side, too, pressing his tummy flush against her back. His hand rests on the curve of her ass.

“Hurts?” he murmurs, sounding a tad guilty.

“A little,” Sam says, yawning, “but I like it.”

Dean chuckles, burying his nose in the base of her neck and breathing in deeply, enjoying the scent of her. “'Course you do, kinky little shit,” he says, his breath hot against her skin.

She grins and wiggles back against him, tugs the covers up over them. His hand curls around her waist and she feels more content than she ever has before in her whole life. She commits the moment to memory. She yawns again, and Dean yawns, too.

“The candles,” she slurs, droopy eyes staring worriedly at the few left flickering.

“They’ll be fine,” Dean tells her. “Go to sleep, Sammy.”

Sam obeys him willingly.

***

Sam wakes up in increments, reveling in the warmth and comfort curling around her like a living thing. It takes her a moment to realize that’s true– Dean’s still spooned up behind her, breathing deeply, a perfect, amazing-smelling blanket. She stretches her toes, sighing, content to linger in Dean’s embrace for as long as possible.

The sun has crept from the horizon to the trees by the time Dean wakes up. This room is one of the few on its floor level with windows, set high in the ceiling and sending deep orange beams down around them. He murmurs something and Sam feels the drool he’s left on her neck. His hand tightens on her waist for a brief moment, and then he’s stretching, leaning over her to kiss the corner of her mouth.

“Mornin’.”

Sam hums, opens her eyes and peeks at him. “Mornin’.”

He sits up and runs a hand through her hair, smiling down at her. “Have a good sleep?”

“The best,” she replies honestly, letting her dimples come out to play.

Dean looks content. He kisses her more properly this time, but it ends too early for Sam’s liking. “Morning breath,” he explains, scrunching up his face, and she laughs at him.

She has woken up in his arms time and time before, but this time is different, this morning is different already, more complete. If she didn’t already know they are soulmates, this day would’ve confirmed her suspicions, without a doubt. She didn’t need sex to bring herself closer to Dean, not at all, but they’ve both been aching for each other for so long in an impossibly indescribable way, and well. She feels like that itch has been scratched, that her soul has found permanent housing snuggled within Dean’s.

He reads some of this in her gaze and touches her, rubbing her arms and cupping her face. “You stay there,” he tells her, “and I’ll make you breakfast in bed. Complete with dumb white-chocolate-chip-banana pancakes.”

She moans sexually, enjoying the response it gets her. “You’re the best,” she says, curling back into her pillow.

He throws a sock at her. “Don’t get used to it,” he says, but they both know there’s no real threat behind his words.

He’s almost out the door when she clears her throat, looking up at him from her blanket fortress. “You think we’ll be okay?” she asks shyly. “For real this time, for good?”

He smiles widely at her, his eyes soft and wet with love and affection, years old and well-honed. “We’ll be okay for the rest of our lives,” he says sincerely, and he’s saying  _I love you_ , he always has been, over and over, endlessly.

Sam loves him right back. She’s looking forward to the rest of her life, and she isn’t afraid anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are love! <3


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